A Philosophical Question:

Yesterday I read an article in The Huffington Post about The Rapture. The now  89 year old Harold Camping prophesied that is was to occur on  May 21, 2011 at 6:00 PM. I left a comment on that article because it got me to thinking. And once that ball starts to roll there just ain't no stopping it -so-  I did what I always do, I gave in and rolled with it.

The Rapture,  once again conspicuous by it's absence was also predicted by Harold Camping back in 1994.  Does he believe what he saying?  Who knows?  I don't profess to know what's in this man's head but having been enmeshed in a few Evangelical, Fundamentalist Christion Churches I can guess.  I admit, I'm an opinionated woman so of course I have an opinion for this particular incident and this particular biblical prophecy ......

Below is my comment (I've expanded on my original comment because I have no character limits here):

“I don't understand people & I suppose I never will, I've stopped trying.  All evidence points to there being little to no love or respect for God (if there is a God).  If I believed in God I would be terrified of meeting him after trashing his planet and killing his creatures.  Look at what we've done to the planet.   Look at what we do to animals and look at what we do to each other.  If one loves and respect 'God' one would not harm, destroy, kill or exploit  His creation.  If we loved God there would be no poverty, no  hunger,  no homelessness and we would be taking great care of each other because, after all, we are all God's creatures.  Who would even think to destroy The Mona Lisa?  Isn't God a greater artist than da Vinci?  Yet we think nothing of spilling oil into The Gulf annihilating millions of Living, Feeling Beings all of which were supposedly created by God.  Isn't the Gulf a greater work of art than the Mona Lisa?

If the Bible truly is  'The Inspired Word of God' then we are obviously cherry picking what we are going to obey. After all Jesus did say: Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, care for the sick, the widows & the orphans. I don't see much of that happening. So, maybe, just maybe  there was no rapture because we are not worthy of redemption or Harold Camping is just another false Prophet -or- both.
 
I have to say,  Biblical Prophecy no longer matters to me  because I can't believe in God.  I can't bring myself to believe in a God who would intentionally create creatures as vile and horrid as 'Man'.  We kill for pleasure and we kill for profit.”   There are of course always exceptions to the rules and there are some very wonderful, altruistic people who walk gently on the earth. They trying to do what's moral & ethical, but the sad reality is that they are vastly out numbered by the wicked, the greedy, the power-hungry who feel it's their 'God-Given right' to exploit of their fellow man, to exploit  nature and her resources and  kill, maim, torture the non-human animals "  Just my opinion.

 ¸¸.•*¨*••*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*❤*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*••*¨*•.¸¸

A Crisis of Faith

NOTE:  After years of His silence I just had to ask......


Where are you?

Where are you on sun splashed days
and moonlit nights?

on cloudy days
and starless nights?

on rainy days
and stormy nights?

And where were you during my longest days
and my darkest nights?

P. Najafabadi
2003

¸¸.•*¨*••*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*❤*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*••*¨*•.¸¸

Just Another Dream

Just Another Dream

So of course, I wrote about it.

I dreamed about it so of course I wrote about it 

His presence was

warm and strong

His touch

gentle and comforting

His kiss

soft and sweet

His voice

thick and warm, like liquid gold

He said: 'I love you'

And I felt his warm breath against my temple

I felt safe and loved

then without warning the fragile wall that separates dreams from reality slowly dissolved

as lucidity pushed it's way in, 

I tried desperately to hold onto him

but like a mist he faded away

and in the darkness of the early morning hours

 cold in my aloneness

And tangled in white sheets

I struggle to remember his face

P. Najafabadi

2003

¸¸.•*¨*••*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*❤*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*••*¨*•.¸¸

Raven and Pig

Note: This makes me very sad.  I wrote this  after watching a documentary about animals bred, raised and slaughtered for food.  One particular pig stood out for me so this is her story.  There are no happing endings here.    I will be forever haunted by what I saw.  This piece is copyrighted so please do not copy it unless by permission.

Raven and Pig  

by P. Najafabadi 

©

Raven sits at the highest point in the tree,
stretching out shining black wings to be warmed by the sun
he looks down
watching, waiting for Pig

It is her turn

Pig doesn't understand what's happening
she just knows that she's afraid

she can hear the screams of other pigs
she senses their fear and it feeds into her own


she smells the hot coppery scent of blood in the air
mixed with terror

the man screams at her

he beats her across her back with his stick

he kicks her

she is so terrified  her bowels let loose right where she stands

she turns around  trying  to escape the man

in her panic she slips on her own excrement and falls on her side

the man is enraged

and he continues to beat her with his stick
and kicks at her as she struggles to get up

bruised and bloody

in pain and terrified

she is herded to an awful place

jammed into a filthy, bloody box

 a bolt is rammed into her head and she is stunned 


her leg is shacked

she is hoisted by one leg into the air 
and her throat is  cut

 still conscience

she struggles violently while suspended helplessly

as the blood gushes from her neck
hot and salty it stings her eyes

Raven waits patiently for the precise moment for when Pig gives in to death

then lifts his head towards heaven
releases a long scream  in protest of her murder

then he sweeps down gathering her essence

and carries her away on his shining black wings

away from wicked men
whose hearts are hard and eyes too blinded by greed
to see Pig and her sweet sensitive spirit
for the gift that she was.

Raven looks down on the empty shells of men knowing that they are already long dead

for they had murdered their own souls the moment they murdered their first pig

P. Najafabadi

Jan. 19, 2011

Copyrighted 


¸¸.•*¨*••*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*❤*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*••*¨*•.¸¸

Surrender ©

Surrender ©

Surrender

Alone, a frail old woman slowly undresses in front of a cloudy, black speckled ancient looking mirror that belonged to her great grandmother. She contemplates the age of the mirror as she reaches up with her old fingers that are no longer the nimble fingers of her of her youth  and she  fumbles with the  tiny buttons on the traditional high collared blouse that all the old women in her village  tend to wear. 

Staring back at her from behind the black speckles is the reflection of a woman she barely recognizes as herself.  Her thin lips tremor as she silently counts. She figures that the mirror   must be well over 200 years old now,  and she sighs heavily and whispers to her reflection  “I look like I am over two hundred years old”.    She leans in closer towards the mirror to get a better look and notices that her white hair is so thin that it barely covers her pinkish scalp. Her eyes are sunken and a teary looking faded grey and her face is  deeply lined. Large brown spots are scattered about her forehead, cheeks and chin,  blotting out what was once a creamy completion. Once upon a time she was considered to be a real beauty.  She Reaches up and lightly touches a sharply protruding cheek bone with gnarled bluish tinted  fingers.  She gently slides the tips of her fingers across her face  causing  loose, paper then skin to bunch up under them.  She notes that the skin on her face looks as if it was  haphazardly  draped over  facial bones much like an old thread bare dish towel that's been carelessly tossed over a pile of rocks and She thinks to herself: 'so this how old age decorates a face' and she sighs again, only this time her sigh is much deeper and longer.

With a shuffling movement She turns away from the mirror and looks around the room. It's a cozy, welcoming room that's furnished in the style of a bygone era. Her gaze floats across the room like a feather riding a slow breeze, floating downwards, gently  bouncing off of  treasured mementos . With faded ,watery eyes her  gaze rest on one knickknack after another,  just long enough  to coax free a memory. Some of the memories are  sweet and precious while other are riddled with grief and regrets. 

In a dream-like state she is whisked away, carried to a mystical place of long ago where old familiar sounds and smells still dwell, locked in little bubbles like snow globes. Her senses come alive as a lifetime of memories burst free,  twisting and swirling in her head.   Lost in the echoes of her past she watches as a million events  spin a unique tapestry,  each golden thread is intricately woven into the lives of others. Each person is connected to another until the circle of purpose and reason slowly tightens into a million knots and before her face all of those knots morph into what was her life.

Just outside her tiny cottage the bright, cheery warmth of a golden sun belies the impending shorter days and longer nights as autumn quietly surrenders to winter.  Seagulls fly over head, each mournful cry mingles with the others into a magnificent symphony, a symphony like no other .

Off in the distance, behind her cottage is a gnarled old tree that was once a lush green and filled with abundant life. It now surrenders her magnificent canopy. Her Brightly colored leaves drop off. In a silent dance they twist and swirl as they  float to the ground. The earth below, now decorated with the old tree's sacrifice of multicolored opulence in commemoration of autumn’s last days.

Still standing by the ancient mirror the weary old woman struggles to pulls herself out of a trance like state. With quiet resolution she accepts that she, like autumn has come to the end of  days. She  removes her precious pearl earrings one at a time, absently minded she caresses their satiny smoothness with her gnarled old fingers and with great tenderness she sets them on her dressing table and shuffles over to her bed and crawls into it. 

From her bed she can hear the sea's continual low, rumbling sound as frothy waves roll over each other in a frantic race to reach the beach,  gliding over the sand making it look like satin. As the spent waves tumble back into the sea they leave behind little jewels.  Beautiful stones embellished with intricate colours and patterns, sea glass and empty shells that were once filled with life.

The old woman closes her eyes.  Clutched tightly to her breast is they tapestry  that holds the of memories of her long life and  she slowly drifts off, silently releasing all of her sweet memories.  So many memories.   Like a beautiful waltz that is danced to the symphony of  the seagulls and the sea  they twist and swirl until they fade into nothingness as she surrenders her final breath .

This Story is Copywrite Protected
by  Najafabadi
2001 

¸¸.•*¨*••*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*❤*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*••*¨*•.¸¸